The Fall of Abilene

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “I’m sure he’ll be around,” Mike said.

  “Well, if you see him, thank him. Tell him he can have free drinks, too.” With that he whirled around, laughing. “By thunder, that’s one huge pecker. Almost as big as mine.”

  The whitewash had done a job, just not the one Hickok wanted. When the paint dried, the original dark paint had shown through. Now, the bull’s manliness stood out, highlighted by the whitewash, like God was directing the sun’s rays upon His greatest creation.

  “By grab,” Coe laughed, “that is a masterpiece.” He turned back around, just so we could see how delighted he was one more time, before returning inside.

  “What do we do?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” Mike walked away.

  “Maybe,” Gainsford said, “maybe if the marshal gets on a winning streak in the Alamo, or if no ruction breaks out here, maybe the marshal won’t see it. And once it gets full dark, that’ll help. I hope.”

  “Ma’d call that wishful thinking,” I told Deputy Gainsford. Of course Hickok would notice, but it didn’t hurt to wish.

  * * * * *

  “You ready?” Mike asked.

  It was Monday afternoon. I’d been ready for two days, waiting for Hickok to boil over and set that tavern, and Phil Coe, on fire, but the marshal had not even mentioned the bull. That wasn’t Mike’s meaning, of course, but I gave him a blank look.

  “We got complimentary tickets to Mrs. Lake’s circus.”

  “What about the prisoners?” I pointed toward the cells.

  “Carson’s around. He can look after things. Besides, has anything really troublesome ever taken place in Abilene at two in the afternoon? On a Monday?”

  * * * * *

  Looking around inside that big tent, I grabbed a handful of nuts from the little sack Mike had bought and shoved them in my mouth. “Aren’t there any tigers or elephants?”

  “Not at this circus.”

  “What’s all the excitement about then?”

  “Because it’s something other than cattle and it’s better than a parson’s lecture on the evils of whiskey and women.”

  It was then I saw Hickok, down in the arena, black hat tilted at that rakish angle, the tails of his frock coat pushed back so that everyone in the big tent could see his revolvers. Nudging Mike’s arm, I pointed.

  “Keeping the peace,” Mike said.

  “Do you think he knows?” I asked.

  “Knows what?”

  “About the Bull’s Head.”

  “Of course.”

  “But he hasn’t even mentioned it.”

  Mike sniggered. “What do you expect him to do? Kill Coe? Burn down the place?”

  “Something like that.”

  He shook the bag. I took more nuts. “There’s nothing he can do,” Mike explained. “If he brings it up, he’d just be leaving himself open for ridicule. They’d laugh at him. So he just ignores it.”

  “What if Coe brings it up?”

  “He won’t. He can’t, either.”

  I chewed and thought, trying to focus on all the commotion below. The seats weren’t that good. We were practically on the top row. But, well, we didn’t pay for them, so I couldn’t complain. Yet I kept thinking about that painting of the bull, and how I had botched that job.

  “None of that makes a lick of sense,” I told Mike. “You just can’t pretend nothing happened.” I looked up at him. “Can you?”

  “That’s why you’ll never be a gunman.” Mike grinned. “You don’t understand the pride that comes with that job.”

  At first, Lake’s Hippo-Olympiad and Mammoth Circus didn’t seem like it was going to be much better than the dog and pony show I had seen down in Victoria. The clowns did their thing. Some folks laughed. I yawned. There was some trick riding. That was all right, except one gent in tights fell off his horse. I could’ve done that, but you wouldn’t catch me dead in those tights.

  But then the widow and that girl I’d seen at the depot stepped onto this wire. The wire wasn’t pulled tight, either, but when they stepped on it—on opposite ends, mind you, and both ladies being up pretty high to start off—well, that had me leaning forward.

  The rope started dropping with their weight, into a bit of a crescent till they were about down to Hickok’s hat, and the wire started swinging the widow and the girl this way and that. That seemed all right, especially when Hickok stepped into the center of things, and the widow and the pretty girl swung right over his head, then again, and then the girl took his hat right off his head. Hickok ran forward, then stopped. The wire carried the girls away, then swung them back, and they leaped off, didn’t fall, leaped!

  The girl returned Hickok’s hat. They bowed, and Hickok, who from our great height appeared a bit rattled by it all, went back toward the seats. The clown gave him a shiny flask, and Hickok drank.

  Next, a little dog did some tricks. That was pretty good, but it also had me lean over to Mike and say: “Dog and pony show.” Mike laughed, crumpled the sack he had emptied of nuts, and bounced it off my nose.

  After that came what Mike called Mazeppa, based on some poem by this Englishman named Lord Byron. It was all right, I guess. The widow, she rode well, especially when they lashed her to this white horse and sent it running all over the arena, jumping over barricades, the little dog, and even the girl. Mike tried to explain everything that was supposed to be happening, but I couldn’t hear due to the crowd hollering and stomping their boots. Just like that, it was over.

  “Huh,” I said, sitting up straight.

  “Like it?” Mike asked.

  I shrugged, but kept staring at the girl, whose attractive limbs were showing. She rode as well as the widow, and certainly better than the gent who fell off his horse.

  It took a while to get down from the stands to Hickok, whose face was shining with sweat. That was the best part of the whole show, that I remember. He introduced Mike and me to the girl, while the mayor and the newspaperman just kept talking and bowing to the widow, saying how pleased they were with the entire performance, that it wasn’t vulgar like most circuses, and that she could come back whenever her heart desired. She looked over at Hickok, whose back was to her as he told Mike and me that he’d be by the office later that night, after the train left. I shook the widow’s hand, and the girl’s, too, taking one more gander at the latter’s limbs, before me and Mike left behind the sawdust and the smell of horse apples and peanuts.

  * * * * *

  “You think Bill will go with her?” I asked.

  We sat in the office again, Mike washing his face in a basin, me trying to make a new pot of coffee.

  Mike grunted, wiped his face with a towel, and said: “He told me he’s no paper-collar man. He’s a man of the West. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Mike tossed the towel onto a pile. “I hope I’m wrong.”

  My eyes trained on him, the coffee forgotten. “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s a dangerous job,” he told me.

  I could only shrug.

  “But if we get through this year, Jim might have a chance.”

  I didn’t understand that, either.

  “Did you notice anything peculiar at the circus?” Mike asked.

  Laughing, I went back to the coffee. “I saw a lot of peculiar things. It’s a certain sure circus, Mike.”

  “How about the crowd?”

  “What about them? Lots of folks. I wonder if the evening show will draw that many.”

  “What kind of people?” Mike persisted.

  He got a good long stare before my head shook in surrender.

  “Farmers,” Mike told me. “Farmers and merchants. You were the only cowboy there.”

  My tongue swept over my lips. I did some studying but still couldn’t grasp Mike’s point.


  Mike picked up the newspaper I had been reading. He flipped open the Chronicle and jabbed a finger at a small article with a lot of names and numbers in it. “Spanish fever,” Mike said. “A committee will arbitrate claims of farmers in Dickinson County who have lost cattle … their cattle … killed by your cattle.”

  “We’ve heard that crap before,” I reminded him. “Our beeves aren’t sick. Our cattle haven’t killed anything.”

  “And the farmers say their cows weren’t sick, either,” Mike continued, “till longhorns came through. That’s not my point. You’re good at numbers, at cyphering. You might want to tally these figures.” He offered me the newspaper but got no bite from me. “No? Doesn’t matter.” He opened the Chronicle. The paper crinkled in his hands. “Here’s an article titled ‘Something for Young Farmers.’ Here are two notices for journals, the Kansas Farmer and the Prairie Farmer. And a notice on wheat prices. They seem to be pretty good, unlike the cattle market. Plus the county fair’s coming up next month. Farmers love fairs.”

  “So do cowboys,” I told Mike. “They’ve been mentioning it.” When he lowered the newspaper, I pointed. “Those in jail.” But I was beginning to understand what he meant. “Abilene wouldn’t shut down the cattle trade here,” I insisted. “That’d be like cutting your own …” I stopped, picturing Lavender. I hadn’t thought of her in so long.

  “Fall’s coming,” Mike said. “Days are already getting shorter. It’s not as hot. Yes, sir, fall will be here soon. And we might just be witnessing the fall of Abilene.”

  My head shook.

  “There are other towns interested in taking what Abilene has,” Mike continued. “Newton. Ellsworth. And there were cattle towns before us … and gone now. Ask the people down in Baxter Springs. Or over in Sedalia.”

  Sedalia and Baxter Springs rang a bell, but I couldn’t have told you where they were. I said: “And I bet they wish they had the money Abilene’s bringing in this year. With the market dull as it is, your merchants are making out better than any drover or cattleman.”

  “But there’s another side to the trade.” Mike pulled out his revolver, checked the loads, and returned the gun to his shoulder holster. “Don’t forget the graves your pal Hardin helped fill.”

  “Hickok’s filled his share, too.” That comment tasted like bile. I liked Wild Bill. By grab, you couldn’t help but like and admire him. In my book, Hickok even topped Wes Hardin. Hickok didn’t scare me very much and often made me laugh. I could feel at ease around him and probably would have skinned out for Texas long before if not for him and Mike. Hickok I admired, but Mike was a good friend. Maybe hanging around with these Yankees had started rubbing off some of that Texas pride.

  “Well, I’d hate to have to serve under a new marshal,” Mike said, as he folded the newspaper and laid it on Hickok’s desk. “Jim’s my friend. Texas cowboys do stir up a lot of trouble. A lot of folks in town, not just farmers in the county, get tired of constant shootings, knifings, and fisticuffs.”

  It was time to start supper for our prisoners, so I carried a big pot outside. But I hadn’t lost all of Texas inside me. I couldn’t go without reminding Mike of one thing.

  “That last marshal you had? Smith? He was killed by farmers, Mike, not cowboys.”

  I thought that would shut him up, or at least give him pause, but Mike Williams could be too smart for his own good.

  “You’re right,” he said. “But I think Tom had the right idea. Use fists instead of Forty-Fours. Abilene. Kansas. Texas. The whole United States and her territories, the whole world even, would be a hell of a lot better place to live if nobody carried a gun.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Dickinson County Fair will be held at Abilene, October 4th, 5th, and 6th. It will excel anything of the kind that has ever taken place in the Valley of the Smoky Hill.

  I read this announcement in the Chronicle when it came out on Thursday the fourteenth of September. But I read more, too, and after Mike’s little lesson, I paid more attention to what was in that four-page newspaper. You could learn a lot by paying attention. Farmers were threshing wheat, breaking sod, putting up hay, starting their fall plowing. More cattle were dying of Spanish fever. Texas cattlemen were being sued. And there was a big “reform” going on in town. Eastbound trains had begun to carry away what Mr. Wilson called in his Chronicle “sinful humanity”—meaning cappers and pimps, gamblers and prostitutes. The gist of the story was that peace and prosperity would not come to Abilene until the Texans, but mostly what we Texans brought, were gone for good.

  I wadded up the paper and tossed it in the stove, which was burning good. And I laughed at this little phrase that I’d read over and over in the Chronicle but had always ignored: A Live Paper With Live Readers. Yeah, well, how long could a newspaper survive with dead readers? And would the Chronicle continue to breathe without the business Texas cattlemen, cowboys, and Texas beef brought to this town?

  The heat felt good. I didn’t want to leave the stove. The previous weekend had brought in what the newspaper called “a regular November day.” The wind turned harsh, bitter. The temperatures plummeted. Then came the raw, biting breath of winter, and a cold, drizzling rain. By that Thursday, dark, fierce-looking clouds had consumed the sky.

  It looked like Kansas wanted to skip autumn and bring winter in. Things got so slow, the Novelty Theatre held a temperance lecture rather than some bawdy play. Things got so slow that the council relieved James Gainsford and J. H. McDonald of their deputy jobs. I wished they had let Brocky Jack and Tom Carson go instead. I’ve heard stories that the council wanted to get rid of me, but Mike and Hickok talked them out of it. Sometimes I wish they hadn’t.

  Abilene had always been quiet during the morning, but now it seemed practically dead. The evenings were loud, but neither Hickok nor his deputies brought in many miscreants, and most who spent the night in a cell were gone, having sobered up and paid a fine, by the next afternoon.

  Cattle started selling fast but at prices that favored the buyers. By October, few cattlemen, few cattle, few cowboys remained. The same could be said about that “sinful humanity,” but a few remained in town.

  “They’re like everybody else,” Mike told me. “They want to see the fair.” He was pouring coffee when Mr. Trott came in with one of those flimsy yellow papers. He was practically out of breath.

  “Marshal’s not here, Jason,” Mike told him. “You ought to know that. It’s not even ten.”

  Jason Trott swallowed. His nose and cheeks were red from the wind and cold. “It’s not for Marshal Hickok, Mike,” he said, and held out the telegraph. “It’s for you.”

  Tentatively, Mike lifted his hand to take the paper. “I’m sure everything will turn out fine,” Trott said. “These things happen all the time. Wait till you’re my age.” He tried to paste on a smile, nodded a farewell, and left.

  Like a heel, I just stared, not saying a thing, not doing anything, just waiting as Mike’s eyes moved back and forth, back and forth, till he sighed and laid the yellow paper on the desk.

  “Is everything … all right?” A poor attempt, I knew, but they were the only words that came to mind.

  Mike gave a little shrug and whispered: “I don’t know. She’s sick,” Mike said.

  She had to be his wife. I’d had the croup, measles, colds, and bowel complaints over my lifetime. So the questions I wanted to ask were: ‘How sick?’ and ‘What kind of sick?’ But I kept my mouth shut, keeping myself busy with little things for the prisoners while Mike filed papers and kept looking at that yellow paper till Hickok came inside.

  Before the marshal could even start his preening, Mike showed him the missive. Hickok read it, then looked across the office at Mike.

  “She has a doctor,” Hickok stated, not asking a question.

  “He sent the telegraph.” Mike nodded. “He comes to the saloon a lot. Lives just down th
e road.”

  “Someone’s with her?”

  Mike shrugged. “Her aunt lives nearby. She’s looking after her.”

  Frowning, Hickok sat down. He studied his boots while he twisted his mustache, moving it up and down as he appeared to be having an internal conversation with himself. Finally, he lifted his head and locked those hard eyes on Mike.

  “It’s your call,” he said, “but with the fair starting, I sure could use you.” He held up his hand. “Not that I expect any problems, but some boys are still in town. Including Coe, along with some other sons of bitches. It’ll be their last hurrah for the season. Then they’ll all light a shuck back to Texas or to wherever they can work their cardboard and ivories.”

  Mike rested his chin in his hand to consider his options.

  “I’ll let you work the Novelty,” Hickok said. “Take in a show. Just make sure nobody tries to abscond with one of the dancers before she’s finished her act. The fair’s over Saturday. We’ll get the judge to hold court on Monday. Clean out the jail. Turn the Texans loose and point them for home. I’ll make McCoy pay you for the full month of October. God knows you’ve earned it. Then you can take this tenpinning fool to Kansas City. Get your little lady back on her feet. Pour beers in the Cabinet Saloon till I send for you next May.”

  Mike made himself smile when he finally looked up, first at Hickok, then at me, and at length back at our boss. “Well,” he said with a little sigh, “I guess … how many days, Counting Boy?”

  That moniker hadn’t been used in ages. “Six, if Monday,” I said. “Seven, if Tuesday.”

  “You’ll be out Monday,” Hickok said. “My word.” He smoothed his mustache. “I know that seems like a long time,” he said. “But you’re no doctor. There’s not much you could do to help, except with the young ’uns, and you’ve got an aunt to do that for you. But, if you want to go, no hard feelings, no ill will, I’ll understand, and still make the sniveling bastards on the council pay you in full for the month.”